


opposites attract

by mildlyobsessive



Series: Poetry-esque [2]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Bad Poetry, Experimental Style, Gen, Metaphors, Opposites Attract, Or not, POV Second Person, Poetry, Soliloquy, Unhealthy Relationships, esque, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyobsessive/pseuds/mildlyobsessive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was Easter Sunday, but you could never quite manage to be Good Friday.</p><p>You think you're closer to the Saturday between the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	opposites attract

**Author's Note:**

> My dog died.

They say that opposites attract, but you were never quite opposites, not really. He was everything you wanted, both to have and to be, but you could never polarize him. Instead, you were a pathetic replica, getting as close as you could but never being able to summit the mountain that he towered as.

He was Easter Sunday, but you could never quite manage to be Good Friday. You could never quite replicate that stink of death and decay, those holes in your hands and wood on your back. You were never broken _enough_.

You think you're closer to the Saturday between the two, when the pain isn't quite as pungent but hovers like locust all the same, when the tomb is sealed and everyone goes home and thinks, "that's that."

And then he arrives, angel's sent from God's left hand to proclaim the good news and scare the shit out of some people while they're at it, and blows your memory out of the history books. 

Maybe yours would be a better love story if you were fragmented enough for him to glue back together with his kisses and kind words, if your cold ember was dead enough to be ignited by his bonfire, left sparking and dancing anew. But the cinders collecting over your body were always just alive enough to burn your skin, and always glowed with just enough vivacity to ensure that they looked a part of the flames. It hissed and scorched and left scars branded into your flesh, but it was never enough.

Which stands to question if yours even is a love story? And, if it is, whether it's the kind that gets a happy ending?


End file.
